Blessed Seaweed
by worldtravellingfly
Summary: F**k her life. She can't even. *insert all the expletives* Just. Rebirth? Really? Or: a German ends up in 1930s Brooklyn, with five siblings, and a crush.
1. 1

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

So, I jumped on the Self-Insert Bandwagon, all thanks to EmptySurface. And yes, I seem to still be alive, but sometimes I can't believe it either.

Anyway, this fic is mostly written Drabble-style, which means some chapters are short and some don't seem to end.

Hope you enjoy!

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-1-

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Sometimes life doesn't suck. But those moments are rare and fleeting and usually followed by generous amounts of paranoia, anxiety, or just generally shitty things.

Like. Imagine, you, a somewhat innocent, young woman of questionable intelligence manage to kill yourself by accident. Really, how should you have known that that sucky neighbor next door refuses to get up in time to sand the sidewalk? And that it would be freezing, which is not a good combination with rain.

Just. FYI.

So, slipping on ice and breaking your skull on the edge of the stairway to the entrance is not the most glorious way to go.

 _No, really_ , you say.

(It hurts a lot though.)

Further, please imagine finding yourself born again.

To parents who are better off than some others, mostly because they are so, so frugal. With everything.

Including their affection.

They dislike showing any sort of parental love unless you have managed to exceed all the expectations heaped upon you.

As if that wouldn't be bad enough, you find yourself trapped with a name that is both unwieldy, mispronounced 99% of the time, and so ridiculous one can't laugh it off anymore.

I mean. Benedikta van Wieren?

 **Benedikta**?

 _Really_? That's all you could come up with?

You look at your newborn child for the first time and think: "Huh, she kinda looks like my rich great-aunt from Frisia. Let's call her after that woman." (No, it has nothing to do with the fact she's got no living children of her own and _hey_ , what a coincidence that your uncle died just a few years ago. Imagine that.)

Or maybe they just ran out of cool names after baby number one and two. No hard feelings, it happens.

By the time I'd pop out baby number five, I'd also be hard pressed to find something nice and suitable to name my child which they wouldn't hate me for in years to come.

Okay, sorry for going off-track there.

I'm Benedikta Elfrieda van Wieren, fifth child and fourth daughter of German-born parents.

Born in New York City on November 5, 1923.

 _Holy fuck, I'm exactly four days and two years_ _older_ _than my original grandmother._


	2. 2

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

I wanted to give you a little more insight into where this story is going, so unfortunately I won't update every other day in the foreseeable future.

Thank you to those who reviewed, favorited, and followed!

* * *

-2-

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Fun fact: life during the Great Depression is...depressing. (Who would have thought, right?)

Father loses his job, his car, and most of the family wealth pretty much overnight.

Times are so bad, they can't hold on to their apartment any longer, having to sell it at a ridiculously low price.

Instead, they relocate us. To Brooklyn.

Ironically, this part of the town will one day become Hipster Central, housing prices shooting through the roof.

Now, it's the place to go if you don't have a lot of money. For the desperate. (Or so Mother makes it sound.)

Father finds a new job, but one with far less pay and prestige. He's not happy about it.

Neither is anyone else.

Martha, who is ten years older than me, moves out and marries some guy she met at the dancing hall.

He's not German, which our parents do _not_ appreciate.

Unfortunately for them, Martha doesn't give a damn.

"Keep an eye on Willi. He's not used to any of this," my oldest sister whispers into my ear when she finds a quiet moment during the subdued wedding reception.

As if on cue, Willi retreats to our side.

He's the youngest of us, only two.

I doubt he can imagine what life was like before Father lost everything.

He has never ridden in a car, or worn tailored clothing. Shoes which have been made just for him.

Martha leaves home at eighteen, never to return. Except for the occasional family dinner.

Then there's Seraphina. She's the second oldest of us and our family's ruin has made her bitter.

Seraphina's used to love taking us on walks. Nowadays, she rarely sets her foot outside of the apartment unless it's work- or chore-related.

She's a secretary for a law firm.

Then there's Leona, Seraphina's twin, and our could-have-been socialite. She'd have been amazing as someone's secretly strip-pulling wife (since she wasn't allowed to run for president).

But the Depression destroyed that future for her.

Nowadays, she's working as a shopgirl, advising those few with money to spend on how to spend it best.

Leona is the most persuasive of us all. You'll see.

"What are you brooding about?" Walt asks, poking me in the side.

I use the leniency granted to me due to my age and hug him.

Walt checks to see if anyone is watching - they're too busy staring at the cake Mother cobbled together - before he places his arm around my shoulders.

"I'm going to miss Martha," comes out of my mouth without permission.

Walt sighs. "Oh, dolly."

He squeezes my shoulder gently. "You can still go visit her and play with her."

A pout steals over my face. "But she's going to stay with Rory now."

"The joy of reuniting with her will be ever sweeter then," Walt quotes back at me, tapping my nose.

Walt is my eldest brother and the fourth child. He wants to become a journalist once he's older, and attend university.

Father knows about the latter, but not the former. It's better that way.

Willi's fallen asleep against me.

I sigh, resigning myself to sitting still in the corner for the foreseeable future.


	3. 3

No copyright infringement intended.

Also, I forgot to warn for this, but this isn't as well-researched as some of my other stories. So, mostly based on my grandparents' experience, hearsay, and GOOGLE.

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-3-

* * *

School in the 30s is a bit like running a marathon. Every single day.

The subject matter is easy for me, although old-fashioned.

Writing on a slate board takes some getting used to. As does the idea of physical punishment being considered not only alright, but that it's even expected from teachers.

The books are hand-me-downs from my older siblings, carefully wrapped in old newspaper pages.

Only my notebooks are new.

I don't mind learning so much as the growing discrimination against people like me.

It's 1933. There's been one major world war already. There's whispers of detaining people with German parents.

(Father talks about it with Mother. He has decided to naturalize all of us to become solely American.)

"Miss van Wieren! Perhaps you could solve this problem instead of day dreaming?" Mr. Baker barks out, pointing to the blackboard.

I almost trip over the dainty foot of Richardine Harris on my way to the front.

She looks like a little angel with her pinafore and braided pigtails. In reality, she's a bully from hell.

Mr. Baker glares at me while I approach the blackboard.

The math problem is fairly easy. Multiplication.

10 times 23.

I don't have to think much about it. Lucky for me.

Mr. Baker is not a fan of mine.

"230 is correct. You may be seated."

His grudging permission given, I hurry back to my place on the bench.

No one has tinkered with my things - this time - and life continues.

I avoid the others during recess as much as possible.

Nothing is worth being torn to shreds on a daily basis.


	4. 4

No copyright infringement intended.

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-4-

* * *

After the lessons end, I walk home from the all-girls school.

Walt's is on the way, so he usually joins up with me.

"How was school?" He asks, taking care to speak English.

I shrug, adjusting the books I carry.

Walt sighs. "At least I don't have to worry about you getting beat up."

Willi won't have it as easy, once he's old enough for school.

Hell, he'll be stuck there in the middle of the worst.

I don't want to think about how bad he's going to have it once the next war really breaks out.

A man in a tailored suit approaches us.

Well, he ignores me and greets Walt with: "Have you thought about my proposition?"

Unbidden, a frown forms on my face. What proposition?

The man is tall, some blond hair is peeking out from under his hat - needs a haircut soon - and the brown fabric of the suit is too fine for this neighborhood.

Too new.

Walt tries to remain polite. "Yes, sir. I have talked to Father and he insists that I should finish my education first."

The man does not look happy, but a small, seemingly approving smile appears on his face faster than you could say "what?".

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Then he vanishes back into the crowd.

Walt refuses to meet my eyes.

"What does that man want from you?" I prod, hoping it's nothing bad.

But who approaches a barely 13-year-old boy with pure intentions?

Not grown men who ignore their little sisters.

Walt pretends he didn't hear the question.

Mother is busy cooking dinner when we return home.

"Eure Aufgaben liegen auf dem Tisch." ("Your tasks are lying on the table.")

Today it's a German lesson. I have to write a short essay on the last book we have read.

Walt has to read the German paper to her while she cooks.

Mother probably misses all the influence she's had when Father still was an important merchant and trader.


	5. 5

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Hope you have had a nice few days!

Thanks for the reviews, follows, and faves!

* * *

-5-

* * *

Things only get worse as time passes. The war is more and more imminent.

We all have to carry these official papers at all times. They identify us as persons of German descent.

Farther thinks he's being watched. (He is.)

Meanwhile, Walt graduates from school. He still wants to pursue a career in journalism.

To put it mildly, Father disagrees. Harshly.

After beating him black and blue, Father sends Walt off to college - but as a business major.

I think Walt will either loathe his professional life or volunteer to fight in the war.

The military can't deny that they'll need people who can speak German. To translate, to spy, to interrogate POWs.

Having to watch Walt leave for college, bruises carefully hidden under too wide clothes, wincing, is terrible.

He's sensitive and quiet and I hate seeing him so broken.

Nevertheless, Walt promises to write.

A few days later, Willi is punished for playing with some neighborhood children.

Father isn't happy to see him having fun.

Mostly because his precious second son is playing with several Black children.

Proving he's truly my sibling, Willi makes it a point to continue his friendships.

Mother sighs a lot and makes him wash up thoroughly when he comes home - somehow, Willi manages to always end up in either mud or soaked in blood - while she shakes her head or tuts at him. But she doesn't say anything to Father about it.

Not unless she can help it.

Meanwhile, Seraphina moves into a tiny apartment with a friend from work, Sheila.

They're joined at the hip most days, so Sheila attends family dinner with Rory and Martha and their children.

At least my sister is laughing again.

In January, Leona marries a Jewish doctor.

They heavily oppose the American Nazi movement and support the Red Cross.

Some days, I'm terrified the police will knock on our door and tell Mother that her daughter and son-in-law died under suspicious circumstances.

But I could not be prouder of her, for anything.

She's truly passionate about this.

Besides, her husband is deeply in love with her and vice versa.

Knowing what I do, I hope that will continue even in the 50s.

Whatever free time I have, I spend teaching children of more affluent families French and geography.

Then, in the summer, Hitler declares war on Poland.


	6. 6

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Nothing recognizable belongs to me.

* * *

Thanks to everyone that reviewed, favorited, and followed!

Unfortunately, I was pretty sick, hence the late update.

Please Enjoy!

* * *

-6-

* * *

Learning about something in history class, or from educational documentaries, or reading memoirs, is completely different from actually having to physically live through the aforementioned events.

Which I hardly have to say, but I do anyway.

The food is rationed, unofficially.

Father is quiet. He rarely speaks German anymore, even at home.

Mother keeps to the apartment as much as she can.

Walt pretends he's Dutch to escape the worst. He says he's going to finish his degree before volunteering.

I just hope he's not drafted before then.

Martha has never taught her children German, and likely never will. She distances herself from the rest of the family.

There's only an occasional letter in the post.

Leona and Jacob continue their fight unperturbed.

Seraphina and Sheila go to work, despite the increased scrutiny on my sister.

And with excellent grades, I force myself to graduate early. Many of the courses are easy, and my school administration is happy to speed along my exit.

There is no way Father will pay for me to attend college. I have made peace with that.

Instead, I scour the papers for jobs.

There's a few asking for typists and maids and household help.

Mother refuses anything that would be "demeaning", such as being in service to another family.

It's a severe embarrassment and degradation, according to her.

"You're too clever by half to have to demean yourself like this," she insists.

Then I find the call for nurses.

Father almost seems proud the day I get accepted.


	7. 7

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Hi. If you enjoy this story, please also check out my other self-inserts "Unbroken Horses" and "Fresh Air".

Thanks for reviewing, following, and favoriting!

* * *

-7-

* * *

Nurse training is not what I'd call "easy".

You change a lot of bed pans and give sponge baths to people. Serve food on trays. Soothe agitated relatives.

Then you learn how to bandage and care for small wounds.

It gets more interesting from there.

The only part I don't like about my new occupation is the uniform. It's starched and heavy, a weight I have to get accustomed to.

My colleagues are mostly nice.

We all help each other.

Some of the doctors are pigs, so we tend to travel in packs whenever we can.

One day, while taking care of an elderly man, I realize I have what can be counted as friends again. It's a strange feeling.

Then Walt brings me home from work one day.

"You're going to volunteer to do something stupid, aren't you?" I ask, watching the people passing us by.

He sighs, shoulders dropping a bit. "How did you know?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm omniscient. All women are. Oh no, now you know our deepest, darkest secret," I gasp, deadpan.

He smiles, tugging me under his shoulder. "Never change, dolly."

"Seriously, Walt. Don't do something I have to kill you for."

He squeezes my bony shoulder. "I would never even think of it."

I nod decisively. "Good. Or I'll hunt you down till the ends of the earth to give you the lecture of a lifetime."

Walt grins. "That's why you're my favorite."

"You're my favorite too, Mister College Graduate."

"I just know a little something about how to operate a business. You know how to put people back together, Miss Nurse. Your skills will be infinitely more useful, the way I see it."

He tugs at one of the curls that got loose from my hairpins.

"Never mind that I know for a fact that you should have been allowed to go too."

"I love you."

"And I you," he whispers, smiling. Pleased with himself and the world.

Just as we reach the entrance to our parents' apartment building, I turn to him.

"Promise to write when you can."

He nods.

Then we climb the stairs, all signs of joy wiped from our faces.

Father is home.


	8. 8

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

please enjoy!

* * *

-8-

* * *

On his last night home, Walt and I go dancing. Some of my closer friends from work come as well, most of them bringing their own date.

Lola makes cow eyes at Walt the entire evening.

I'm pretty sure they'll go home together.

So abandoned, I let my eyes wander over the gathered people.

There's some truly swell-looking ladies and gentlemen in the hall, but none who hold my attention for long.

Just then, someone taps me on my shoulder.

It's a fella taller than me - which is saying something - and he is smiling genuinely, at me.

"Wanna dance?" Is all he asks, but his tone is warm, sincere.

My brother is busy enjoying himself, why shouldn't I?

"I'm free for the next one."

"Nice to meet you," the cheeky bastard quips back, "Miss Free For The Next One."

He twirls me once, twice, on to the dance floor.

The band is transitioning to the next song, a nice, easy number.

I'm laughing, for the first time in what feels forever.

"Who are you then?"

My left eyebrow is quirked, but my traitorous lips still want to smirk.

He grins back at me, an uneven, quirky thing. A little smug around the edges.

"James Barnes, at your service," he introduced himself, affecting a snobbish private school accent. (It doesn't really work for him.)

"Benedikta van Wieren."

I manage to squeeze in a ridiculous curtsy.

His face lights up, eyes twinkling in the dimly lit room.

"You're perfect," comes out of his mouth next, Irish twang strong.

Knowing this would enrage Father even further should he ever find out, I beam at him.

"I try," I shoot back, trying to ignore the heat in my powdered cheeks.

At the end of the night, James walks me home.

I've learned that he works at the docks, has one close friend named Steve, who sounds like a lot of trouble, the good kind though, and that he likes dancing.

On our walk home, we continue to talk.

About our families (he has three older sisters, I do too), books we've read (my favorite is still _Pride and_ _Prejudice_ , his is currently _The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ ), our friends.

I've never met a man who is as easy to converse with as James.

He never seems to judge.

"This is me," I say, pointing to the apartment complex I've lived in since 1929.

James nods, letting go of my arm.

"Take care."

"You too. I had a wonderful time tonight. Thanks for walking me home."

That same quirky grin appears on his face again.

"You're welcome, Bee."

No promises to do this again. Not even a question in that direction.

He doesn't ask for a kiss either.

I tell myself I'm not disappointed.

James watches me enter the building before leaving.

I hurry up the stairs to watch him walk away.


	9. 9

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

So, I'm still alive. Just working full time and it's not leaving me a lot of room to write or update.

Thanks for your lovely reviews! Have a little longer chapter. (;

* * *

-9-

* * *

I finish my training early. That's one thing the fucking war is good for.

At my graduation ceremony, so many family members are missing.

Martha doesn't attend, citing some lame excuse that I forget immediately.

Walt is gone, doing whatever he thinks is necessary to prove he's worthy of being human.

Leona and Jacob don't attend either, but they don't tell me why. There's not even an attempt at a polite excuse.

I'm pretty sure it's because of Father.

Or the fact that the first stories of how cruel the Nazis really are to Jews in Europe have begun to spread here too.

Seraphina and Sheila show up, but can't stay for long. Work calling.

Meanwhile, Willi and I try to make the best of things.

It's not easy, while hearing the news that Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany are continuously gaining more power, what with invading Yugoslavia and Greece.

They're like a highly infectious virus; or a wildfire out of control.

I'm terrified for Walt, but still smile for the photographer when it's my turn.

The diploma in my hands weighs twenty kilos and grows heavier as time drags on.

At least Mother is proud of me.

* * *

That night I decide to go out dancing.

I'm angry and sad; dancing helps to channel that in a more appropriate way.

Walt should have been here.

His last letter - if you could read between the lines of what little hadn't been censored - worries me. He's somewhere - I'm not even sure where! It's dangerous if almost all of it is blacked out.

Tonight, I just want to forget. To celebrate taking one step further toward independence. From my parents, from my self-destructing family in general.

I'm wearing one of Leona's old dresses; she's forgotten to pack it. Or maybe she doesn't want it any more.

It's a daring red number, fitting for one of the pinup girls I'm supposed to know nothing about. (But which I've found among Walt's stuff when I was looking for one of his old pullovers.)

My lipstick matches the color of the dress.

I feel ready to knock someone out of their socks, figuratively.

Tonight, I need to feel _alive_.

The dancing hall is packed; it's Friday, so I'm not surprised.

For a moment I hesitate, but then I get in line and leave my coat at the entrance.

My first goal is the bar.

The cool trickle of white wine down my throat is just what I need. (Drinking alcohol now is less despicable to me for some strange reason. Before, I hardly ever drank and mostly just because of peer pressure. Nowadays, with the war, I'm more tempted by the promise of forgetting, for a moment, what's going on out there.)

My lipstick leaves a slight smudge against the rim of the glass, but I don't care. Not tonight.

Once the glass is empty, I turn around.

Not sure what I was expecting to find, but somehow I'm completely unsurprised that James Barnes is standing before me.

"Bee! How are you?"

He hasn't changed much; grown a bit. His shoulders seem broader, hips narrower. The sleeves of his shirt are straining to contain his muscles.

All in all, he's absolutely delicious and I'm craving dessert.

I smile, eyelids a bit heavy from the alcohol. (Drinking on an empty stomach will do that - especially combined with a low tolerance.)

James returns the expression, his own eyes flitting all over the dress and back to my face every few seconds.

 _Good_.

"James. How are you?" I ask, eyes trailing all over his body.

How are you supposed to resist temptation when you're starving and someone places a lava cake in front of you?

I'm not that strong. My will power is more equal to that of a toddler.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking, doll. You wanna dance?"

"I'd love to," I accept the hand he extends toward me.

He smiles, a genuine one.

Less smugness, that's how you can tell.

His body radiates heat, even in the throng of people.

He takes care to never step on my feet or move me into another couple.

I'm tempted to close my eyes and let him lead.

His hair is gelled back; gleaming under the dim lights.

"Heard you graduated?" James dips me playfully.

My eyes drop to his mouth, licking my lips.

"So I did."

"Why's none of your friends here then?" And is that concern on his face?

That frown needs to go.

I shrug, uncaring that the left sleeve of the dress slips downward a bit.

"They're busy with their families."

James twirls me around once, tugging me a bit closer as our bodies align again.

"Why are _you_ here then," he wonders, "if everyone else is celebrating?"

My lips turn downward a bit. "Half of my family didn't even come to the ceremony. It was just my little brother and me, and the parents. Tonight is for me. To forget."

There's a beat of silence between us.

Then he nods. "Will you allow me to help with that?"

"That would be lovely," I decide, wondering how this man is real.

And he is a man, despite the boyish charm.

He graces me with the biggest smile yet. "I would be honored."

Somewhere behind us, a female is shrieking loudly at someone.

Maybe she's had too much alcohol? Or the guy she's been going steady with has turned to greener pastures.

I'm not curious enough to look away from the gorgeous human specimen holding me.

He's responsible, how weird could things get?


	10. 10

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

-10-

* * *

The next morning, I wake in a bed smelling of cheap laundry soap, James, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.

Also, sex is a polite euphemism for body odor, dried fluids of indeterminable origin, and used air.

There's worse things though and I'm too comfortable to move right now.

James is wrapped around me, like a clingy starfish. He's warm, naturally muscled, and, even in his sleep, gentle.

My eyes feel dry and heavy, so I close them again. Rolling over, to catch some more shut eye.

The next time I wake up, my head is a bit clearer.

First, I let myself feast on the deliciousness spread out next to me.

Then, I look over the room. James Barnes' bedroom, by the looks of things.

It's neat, free of useless nonsense. There's a closet, a mirror, and a chair.

Since most of our clothes are hanging off of that last piece of furniture, I assume he uses it for that purpose.

The night table only holds an alarm clock - the only thing he seems to have bought new - and a candle.

James has mentioned that the light fixture could be a bit finicky sometimes.

I turn, staring at him.

His gray eyes are half-lidded, watching me. A small smile is playing around the corners of his mouth and I lick my own lips.

Slowly, then all at once, the memories of last night return.

Dancing, first at the hall, then between the sheets of his bed.

Him asking if this is what I want. Several times.

Both of us getting out a condom simultaneously.

The sex seems indescribably good.

I want another round, just to ascertain it's not my slightly intoxicated self exaggerating.

James smiles as I roll us around, leaving me on top.

Sprawled out over his chest.

His hands wrap around me, thumb stroking my back.

My own fingers disappear in his hair, as I lean forward to kiss him.

Our languid kissing speeds up a bit as he gets with the program.

"Good morning," he whispers, voice husky.

I can't help the grin. Today, I'm a bit smug.

It's hard not to be, with his erection pressing against me.

"Good morning," I quip back, rolling my hips just so.

He groans a bit, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

"So this ain't a dream?"

I can barely understand him through the Irish twang.

James is still very sleepy.

"No. Unless you're dreaming the same thing I do."

There's a smug little smirk on his face as he processes those words.

"So, you're dreaming of me, eh?"

My cheeks heat up.

He places his right hand against one of the blushing traitors.

However, before I can quip anything back, he freezes.

James is rapidly losing color, eyes wide. No trace of sleepiness remains.

He's reaching for my hand next.

The right one.

On my ring finger, something glints in the semi-darkness. Something that _should not be there_.

I'm wearing a silver band, simple, elegant. Timeless.

James is matching me; he's sporting a band of similar make. Only broader.

But that's not all.

"That's grandma's engagement ring," he blurts out, pointing to the small garnet ring on my hand.

More memories crash over me.

Of kissing in the alleyway behind the dancing hall. Rather indecently.

(I'm pretty sure his hand is under my skirt at one point and I'm not exactly tame either.)

Someone coming up to us and groaning about being blind. "Forever! What the hell is going on? You ditched Mary Ann and Sue Lee with me!"

Wait a second.

I stare at James with wide eyes. "You ditched your date for me?"

If the light isn't playing tricks on me, he's blushing.

It's adorable as hell.

"I like you," he admits, tone soft. Eyes boring into my own. "After the first time, I hoped we'd see each other again, but we always missed each other."

My thumb is rubbing circles into his skin. It's surprisingly soft; where no stubble is growing at least.

"I like you too. Wanted you to ask to meet up again when you walked me home."

James sighs, letting his head dramatically flop backward.

"I'm such a nitwit."

Laughing, I kiss him.

He responds with all the eagerness of a man starving and being served an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Eventually, we force ourselves to calm the hell down again.

The discussion is still ongoing after all.

But now our hands are entwined.

It's a strange sensation, the warm metal against my skin.

"Is this some sort of role play or real?" I whisper, painting invisible lines into his skin.

James hesitates, but gets up. Sending me an apologetic look.

(To which I reply with rolled eyes.)

He looks through the pockets of his coat - naked as the day he was born.

My apparent husband has been gifted with a beautiful backside to match the front is all I'm saying.

He seems to have found something, judging by the rather blue tint his mouth assumes as he lets the swear words fly.

"Is that what I think it is?"


	11. 11

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Someone is thrown under the bus.

* * *

James nods, rather grim. Is he waiting for the executioner or what?

He offers the documents to me, avoiding eye contact. I read through them.

There's my birth certificate and the naturalization papers. My 'passport', so to speak. In case the authorities decide to stop me on my way home for questioning. And under all that I find a marriage certificate.

It seems legit, for all that I can tell. I've never been married before.

It's signed by a Justice of the Peace, dated for yesterday.

One of the witnesses has signed as "Steve Rogers."

Steve, as in James' friend?

"It's him," my husband says. "Wonder why he's decided to let us go through with it."

Since I don't know the guy, I can't tell whether he thinks it's a good prank or romantic. "So, this seems legal."

James sinks into himself like my mother's soufflés.

"I'm so sorry," he rushes out, eyes wide.

I hold up a hand to stop him. "It's not your fault. As far as I can remember, it was _our_ idea. Not yours. And there's at least one person who knows what you're like when you get crazy ideas in your head while drunk. I'm a bit surprised no one stopped us at the courthouse either."

My husband grins. "I'm surprised someone was still there and willing to marry us."

"True. What was he doing there after eleven? That can't be legal."

Have we accidentally crashed someone's mafia wedding?

James nods, but sighs. "We should probably talk about what to do from here."

He keeps his distance from me, still.

"Well, do you want to try to get a divorce?" It's not easy, by any stretch of the imagination, but it's doable.

"No," he replies, before his brain engages. "Not unless you want one?"

I think about it.

Marriage has never appealed to me. In either life. Mostly because the men here are rather overwhelmingly sexist pigs and same-sex marriage is still illegal. Back in the before, I'd given up on ever finding someone who'd accept me and my quirks.

"I'd like to give it a try first. To see if we're compatible enough to work it out."

Some of the shadows lift from his face. The tension in his shoulders lessens as well.

"Can we cuddle, please?"

He's by my side in an instant.

We end up lying side by side, legs entwined, and arms wrapped around each other.

"I want to keep working," I tell him. "That's non-negotiable."

James nods slowly, but is serious as he declares: "I can take care of you."

Sighing, I kiss his cheek. "I've not trained for nothing. Nursing is the closest I'll be able to get to helping other people. It's important to me."

He squeezes my hip gently. "Alright."

Then I roll my eyes. "I'll be fired anyway once they hear I'm married. At the latest when I'm preggy."

I might be a bit bitter about that, actually.

For a moment, he's utterly quiet.

"Do you want kids?" James asks, face as expressionless as he can manage.

Physically, officially, I'm just 19 years old.

The first time around, I couldn't take care of myself - much less anyone else. Debilitating depression will do that to you.

But I'm not really 19 in this life. Besides, nothing matures you faster than a world war.

My eyes trace his face.

James is precious to me; not just because he's hands down the most attractive person ever.  
It's the way he asks for my opinion, sincerely asks, which so few of the people around me this side of death do. The way his kindness and generosity express themselves in how he treats not just me, but others. (Because even though he plays down the role he has in Steve's life, I can read between the lines.)

That's why I want to give this a shot.

...although the hotness factor helps. A lot.

Do I want children? Neither of my parents are exactly stellar examples. But my husband (my _husband_!) is young, and healthy, by all accounts, and he will be drafted at some point. If he doesn't end up volunteering.

"I want to try," I decide eventually. "Don't know how much good I'll be, I have no idea how babies work. Watching my little brother when my mother was busy isn't enough training."

James beams. His whole face is lit up.

He tugs me along as he rolls to lie on his back.

"I - thank you!"

Then I'm showered in kisses.

Laughing, I return the attack, enjoying the moment.


	12. 12

No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

-12-

* * *

Once we have calmed down some, we continue our planning session.

"Will you move in with me?" James wonders.

He learns fast.

"If you're alright with that."

"I'd not ask otherwise."

It earns him a sigh.

"Just don't expect me to do all the housework by myself. You know how to do some of it; I expect that we share. At least for now, I work just as you do."

"Understood."

His tone is matching the seriousness of mine.

I hope he's not just saying this.

James must read some of that on my face. "It's fine, Bee. We just compare our schedules and share. I want you to be happy with me."

"Same," I mutter, a bit distracted by his fingers.

"What else do you need to be happy?"

For a moment, I push the soothing sensation out of my mind. "I want to be consulted for major decisions. Legally, I'm not allowed to do much of anything without your express permission now, so we talk about things. Properly. Like now."

Then I realize we're both still naked in bed, semen drying on our skin.

His eyes are twinkling at me with suppressed laughter.

"Well, maybe not entirely proper."

"But exactly like this?" He presses a kiss to my collarbone.

"Well, I don't mind. Do you?"

James raises his eyebrows at me. "Never."

But he promises solemnly that he's going to ask me what I want before making decisions for me. Or our little family.

We also agree that Steve should not be allowed to be on his own. Honestly, he sounds like a bit of a rebellious teen that has a lot to prove to the world. But no one is listening.

"It's like he's your kid from a previous marriage," I muse out loud.

James is rapidly paling, before bursting into laughter.

Gasping for breath, he agrees with me. Eventually.

We also decide to have a joint bank account for household expenses.

He's going to help me with my clothes and moving. Eager to introduce me to his family.

I'm not sure he's going to enjoy meeting mine. Or that his will welcome me with open arms.

By that point, he's scrubbing my back though, so I'm slightly _distracted_ again.

And who knows? Maybe it actually will all turn out okay.


End file.
